Leaves and Wind
by Mazeem
Summary: Crippled with age, angry and bitter and grieving still for his king, Merlin had nothing left. So he traced his younger steps back to the one person who still cared. The sunlight shone through her but he could still see her smile.


Just something I thought of the other day after reading several different versions of how 'real' Merlin met his downfall. Enjoy!

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The weather mocked Merlin's mood. Buttery sunshine poured down through the trees, dappling the ground in front of him as he stumped onwards. A soft breeze stirred his long, grey beard and he brushed at it impatiently. On and on he went, retracing the steps that he had last made as a gangly youngster. He wasn't covered in blood and weighted down this time. Age was his burden now and he bore it with far less grace.

He stepped out from the trees and felt something softly uncoil in his chest as he stared at the shimmering water. The sunlight reflected off the lake's pristine surface blindingly but still he squinted.

Nothing. He gave a shaky sigh and hobbled to the water's edge. Bending down was hard but the delicious coolness of water against his dry, gnarled hands was almost worth it. He splashed some clumsily onto his face and let it trickle down his cheeks and neck unhindered. Raising his head, he took one more look at the bare expanse of water that stretched in front of him. Blinked.

"Freya?" he called and cringed at the desperation in his voice. It was a smudge on the water. Probably a _leaf_. Except, there was no debris anywhere else. And it was _moving_. "Freya!"

"Merlin." She rose from the water without a ripple and sunlight shone through her, but Morgana's dress hung on her gracelessly and his failed strawberry was tucked in her hair. Merlin tried to say something but his tongue lay leaden in his mouth and his heart raced. Never had he felt so old and so young simultaneously.

"You know," he mumbled at last, "Arthur caught me stealing that dress for you."

She grinned. "What happened?" Her voice was the whistling wind, the rustle of leaves.

"He thought I wanted to _wear _it."

That made her laugh and him smile. He thought he'd forgotten how. Suddenly, as though that twitch of his lips had been a key, the words were boiling up inside him, clawing at his throat and emerging in wobbly gasps.

"Arthur's _dead_. He died without me there and they took him to Avalon. Which was right. He was too good a king to just ... go. But there's no grave or anything. And Albion's falling apart because I'm not a leader." He choked on his own saliva and coughed for a moment. "He was my_ destiny_."

"And now he's gone."

He squinted at her through tear-filled eyes and nodded. "He's gone. There's no-one left who can hold Albion. And I'm _old_." He snarled the word with a viciousness that his younger self had lacked and watched Freya's ghostly eyes widen in shock.

"Yes," she said. "I was wondering. Time gets confused here, but all the same," she stretched out a hand then seemed to remember herself and lowered it hastily, "it hasn't been ... enough, has it?"

"Thirty." She still looked confused. He shook his head, reminding himself that she hadn't lived with the druids long enough to understand all magic's tricks. "Magic ages you." Even now, he couldn't comprehend how old Nimueh must have been under the illusion. "I used it and used it and used it. And it used me."

They stood silent after that. The sun sailed behind a thick cloud and the temperature dropped.

"Why are you here?" Freya asked eventually. Merlin raised one hand to chest level and down again in a visual sigh.

"You're the only person left who remembers me," he said at last. With some difficulty, he removed his red and blue robe and stood, naked and shivering in front of a ghost.

"No, Merlin," she protested but it was weak and nothing against the steel in Merlin's eyes.

"Yes, Freya." He kicked off his shoes and stepped into the lake. The water tickled his ankles. He held her gaze as he began to walk. She floated backwards as he moved forwards, keeping them the same distance apart.

Chest deep, he stopped and asked through chattering teeth, "What are you _doing_?"

"Giving you a chance to think again." She fiddled with the flower in her hair. Merlin smiled.

"Appreciated. Unnecessary, but appreciated." He raised a water-whitened hand from the water and counted. "Gaius is dead. Gwen is dead. Morgause and Morgana got to escort Arthur. There's no-one left to miss me. So." He waded on, tiring with the effort needed to push against this much water.

The water rose over his mouth, then his nose. He looked at Freya, who had mirrored his position exactly. He moved forwards as best he could in the clinging water and then everything was underwater. Freya's arms were around him, her mouth pressed to his eagerly but as insubstantial as air. As the pain in his lungs blossomed, his posture straightened, his hands and face became smooth and soft again, his beard simply floated away. Merlin the manservant again, as in the days of Arthur the prat and the clotpole. Freya, too, was becoming more solid (or was he becoming less?), and he kissed her back with everything he had felt that day when he set her alight.

"Thank you," he whispered and closed his eyes.

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All opinions welcome! :) Thanks for reading!

x Maz x


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